


Trask

by socially_impaired_puffin



Series: Autistic!Din Djarin [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Autistic!Din Djarin, Chapter 11: The Heiress, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din-centric, Gen, I don't think, ManDadlorian, Mandalorian Creed, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attack, Protective Din Djarin, Space dad needs a break, Stimming, The Razor Crest deserves better, This Is The Way, Trask (Star Wars), and probably several hugs, as chapters are posted, chapter 2 has Din as a kid, get Din a real bed 2020, he's having a rough time, i looked it up on wookieepedia, it's a mamacore, it's not too heavy, make it happen mouse, mans needs some stability, post-episode: s2 ep3 "the heiress", rated teen because better safe than sorry, so this might be a series now?, spoilers for the mandalorian s2, star wars sea monster, tagging is so confusing, the mandalorian season two, this is super short, we all know you can afford it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socially_impaired_puffin/pseuds/socially_impaired_puffin
Summary: Takes place shortly after Chapter 11: The Heiress (season 2 episode 3). The mechanic did an abysmal job fixing the Razor Crest and Din has had a truly awful past few days. Understandably, he struggles with this a bit.
Series: Autistic!Din Djarin [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016364
Comments: 7
Kudos: 88





	1. Mon Calamari isn't a swear word

**Author's Note:**

> ****************content warning:  
> Din freaks out a bit and is rather impatient with himself about it. If reading descriptions of panic, memories/flashbacks, intrusive thoughts, or struggling to breathe is potentially triggering for you, please please _please_ skip this!

It's always dark when he wakes up. It's dark inside his helmet, and in the even rarer instances he sleeps with his helmet off, there are no windows in his quarters. There's barely room for him to sit upright. Now, with his increasingly unpredictable schedule and the kid, Din pretty much always sleeps with his helmet on. So it's always dark. 

He doesn't really mind this. Space is dark and his home is the Razor Crest and he is only really planetside on business, stopping by the covert or the guild. Well. He used to. Now, his excursions outside the 'Crest tend to be one wild bantha chase after the other. His ship is his -their, his and the kid's- home. The small space and the darkness. It is part of the routine of his life and it's comforting, in its own way. After all, the kid barely takes up any space at all. 

Now, though, it's different. The ship is covered in nets and smells overwhelmingly of fish. Everything creaks and bounces and groans, not in the familiar way he would know asleep, but in a disorienting, different, unpleasant way that sets his teeth on edge. He's sure the kid probably finds the novelty entertaining, especially with so many potential aquatic stowaways for the little womp rat to try and eat. Din, however, finds the novelty thoroughly awful. He's distantly aware that he does not, in general, ever find novelty enjoyable, but this isn't the novelty of a new person to get used to like the kid with his absurd appetite or the novelty of new beskar forged by the Armorer for him to adjust to wearing. This is his home, turned inside out by strangers and now entirely different and unfamiliar. The smells, the sounds, the textures, the surfaces. The _differentness_ is unavoidably everywhere. He _hates_ it. 

Din has so little stability in his life that part of him has to wonder if the loss of just a bit more stability really makes such a difference. 

He knows that it does. 

When he wakes up, his eyes open to show him nothing. But this time, it's not familiar and it smells like the ocean and it's the sort of not-quite-total darkness that's _just_ similar enough to being underwater to bring that choking feeling back. And with it, the all-encompassing terror of seeing the kid's pram vanish into the mamacore's rows upon rows of teeth. Din knows what a panic attack is and he knows this is definitely becoming one. He can taste blood and salt water and he gasps. His lungs fill with air, not water, but still he coughs and coughs and cannot seem to stop. Tries, fails. Rasps another breath. Continues to cough. He's sitting up now. His arms feel weak and shaky and useless like he was just trying to hold himself above water with the bars of the cage above him instead of sleeping. _The kid_. Where was the kid? It's still so hard to see and the walls, the too-close walls, seem to be rocking as though they were still at sea. If Din wasn't close to punching one of the walls, he might have noted the rocking as yet another unwelcome result of the "repair" job the Razor Crest had endured. As is, his world sways before him and his arms feel so _useless- Where is the kriffing kid? Get it together Djarin. **Kriff** where is he? Djarin. Focus. Breathe. Focus._

He takes a shuddering breath and manages to only cough a little. "Kid?" His voice comes out as a barely-audible croak, as though he's only just been pulled from the water and his chest heaves at the memory. "Kid, where are you?" He tries again, this time his voice catching and breaking slightly, but more audible. Definitely more audible. He thinks. 

A sleepy _cooing_ sound floats down from the little hammock above him. Not a fearful squeal or a cry of pain. Just the soft murmurs the kid makes in his sleep. Din can't quite bring himself to unclench his fists or lower his shoulders, but he also manages not to scream. _Focus, Djarin. That was the kid. The kid is fine. This is the 'Crest._

He hates how he feels the panic still rising and this adds rage to the unstable emotions coursing through him. _Weak. Useless. No danger here Djarin. Snap out of it._ His breathing is frantic again and he keeps gasping, flinching, at nothing. The ghost of something there to startle him, his body twitching and tensing in response to nothing. 

_Din. **Din.** Breathe. Focus. Focus on how the air feels._ He doesn't remember when he started rocking himself back and forth, but presses his hands flat against either side of his helmet and squeezes his eyes shut. _That's it, Din. That's good. Good. It will pass. It always does. Focus on the motions, the air, the little noises the kid makes._ The agitation is still there, but the choice to remain calm feels more like an actual option for him now. The kid sleeps on, still in his hammock, and Din watches his tiny chest rise, fall, hears his inhales and exhales. _You're okay, Din._

His constant, now, is this strange child, who Din is supposed to return to his own kind. With the entire covert slaughtered, Nevarro is gone for him. And now the Razor Crest seems unrecognizable. Without the kid, he has no anchor. 


	2. Foundling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Din is a child, at two different ages. Once before swearing the Creed, once after. I don't want to create any OCs for this because Confidence so it's really, really, _reallyyy_ bare. Better than nothing right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confidence? _I_ don't know her. Can't figure out how to indent paragraphs, which is annoying me. I lack the confidence to take any real artistic license here, so the complete lack of canon I have to work with here may show. 
> 
> Just a little.

He is small, not really an unusual size for his age, but he FEELS small. On the inside. Like part of him shrinks a little more every time he hears the loud clanging of metal. So, extremely often. Din barely remembers his parents, nor his homeworld, but he's pretty sure there wasn't as much fighting there as surrounds him now. Mandalorians (that includes me, now, he reminds himself) love fighting. Vibroblades, blasters, just beskar and brute force, it was their (our) way of life. Din simply wishes he didn't become just a bit smaller every time someone nearby decided to pick a fight. At this rate, there'd be none of him left over and eventually he'd disappear entirely.

He is in the Fighting Corps, this is where he belongs now, he is being raised by them, this is his home now. This has been his home for some time. Even if he's too quiet and growing smaller by the hour.

Din reminds himself of these things, over and over, as he crouches in his hiding place above the armory. His ankles are sore and aching, but he does not move. What sort of weight are they even supporting? He's barely there anymore. He reviews what he knows once again, rotating his ankles in place, his boots scraping against the grit of the roof's surface. He won't lose his balance, he knows, the roof is flat and he's wedged between several utility boxes. The small movements help to bring some feeling back to his feet. In the relative quiet of his hiding place, the sound is more grounding than grating. So he continues turning his feet back and forth, feeling the vibration on his boots and hearing the friction between the treads and the surface. Sometimes his list shows up, sometimes his whole world has been reduced to the tiny bits of dust and gravel beneath him. Even a barely-there foundling, it seems, takes up enough space for this. Din's still continuing this when he distantly registers a new sound, not his. Someone clearing their throat, in a very noticeable way, a "I've been standing here trying to get your attention for some time now" way, not a "there's dust in my throat" way. It's a familiar sound too, as though this particular throat-clearing is one he's heard many times. He looks up to see the Armorer staring down at him. He can't see her face, but given her crossed arms, she's probably annoyed. After all, he is on her roof and has apparently been ignoring her. "Din Djarin," she begins, then pauses. He keeps watching her crossed arms until he realizes her silence means she's probably waiting for him to say something.  
"Yes?" His voice is small but the roof is quiet.  
"Come with me," is his only answer before she turns and walks towards the small ladder leading indoors. Din knows his place well enough to follow after her.  
He's been in the armory before, but it's the most guaranteed place to inevitably hear metal ringing, so he avoids actually going inside, preferring to hide on its roof, where the sounds are softer and more manageable. The Armorer is facing him again and he realizes too late that she's talking, has been talking. What is she saying? He keeps his face blank as he tries to puzzle it out.  
"...a few suggestions. Are you prepared to begin?"  
He really needs to get better at this.  
"Um. Yes?"  
She doesn't say anything further, just kneels on one side of a small table off to the side of the forge. He follows after her, more confused than usual, and kneels opposite her. The table is small enough that he almost feels...well, not big. Normal-sized, in comparison. That's something.  
"First, breathe in for four counts."  
Din, bewildered, does as she asks, tapping his fingers lightly as he counts. "Now breathe out for seven counts." He continues as she says, wondering just what exactly this is all about. "Repeat for perhaps ten minutes," and suddenly she's standing to leave. "That is all, Din Djarin. This is the way." He barely has time to repeat it back before the room is empty. 

He has sworn the Creed and he begins his armor. He's no longer shrinking, but he hasn't really grown either. At least, that's how it feels. He doesn't have to worry about disappearing anymore. Even if sometimes he wishes he could.  
Each day of training ends with exhaustion. Not in his body, they've been conditioned well enough that physically he handles the rigor. No, he feels like his spirit is being drained away, if he even has one. He can't quite put his finger on what is being so tiring, all he knows is how broken that tiredness makes him feel. Not even breathing as the Armorer taught him, which works for so many things, can take that away.

He feels the question that so often comes up as he reaches his cot at the end of the day. "Why am I like this?" He does not know and suspects he never will. His peers find him quiet and strange, probably because he IS quiet and strange. An outsider, more than willing to hide his face for the rest of his life and disappear behind his beskar. Even now, taking up actual space as he does, he remain a shadow to them. They are louder and brighter and bolder, with colorful armor and combative stances. They act; Din reacts. Maybe that's why he's so tired. Constantly watching the others and following their lead. He doesn't quite know what to do, but he does know he's lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I had written in my notes a happier ending (i.e. Din Making Friends), but that's really not canon! And if it is and they died, I _certainly_ will not be voluntarily adding horrible things to Din's lore, because as of yet IT"S NOT CANON. our man is alone before Grogu. 
> 
> Also I'm sorry that this fic is so short. I promise I have so many ideas and also I've read your comments and appreciate the kudos!!! A lot!! It's super validating that other people agree with my headcanon. I'm finally home for the semester and hopefully will be actually posting and writing with some sort of frequency and regularity.


	3. pre-mechanic lesson from space dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just Din waking up after they leave Trask, prior to the adorable attempted-repair scene. you know the one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is extremely short. like. so short. it's a little baby fic. drabble more than anything else. i certainly read a lot more fic than i write.

Din wakes up to the usual darkness and breathes a sigh that's part-exhaustion, part-relief. Sleeping in full _beskar'gam_ has become routine, but that doesn't mean he sleeps well. He's at least become accustomed enough to the smell of brine that he no longer notices it. He wonders if the kid will still be smelling the salt with his little predator's nose and if it will bother him. At the thought of the kid, Din immediately checks the little hammock, but he's still sound asleep, breathing audibly in not-quite-snores. _Must still be pretty worn out, the little womp-rat._ As if sensing Din's attention, the kid's wide eyes blink sleepily and he mumbles to himself, seeming to intentionally stretch his tiny limbs across the hammock. "Good," Din begins, "time to eat, buddy." The kid continues his ascent from sleep slowly, still barely awake, but at least appearing to pay some amount of attention to him. The Mon Calamari mechanic did, arguably, "fix" the ship, but more repairs would be needed before he could get to Corvus, that much was certain. He could try doing some of the repairs himself... _but I can't get to the insides of the ship while we're in space_...Din looks at the kid, now blinking at him expectantly, much more alert. _Hm._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :) if there's more you think i should do here, please comment and tell me, not just because comments give me so much serotonin but also because i'm probably gonna work on other stuff unless there's something specific that fits in this work.

**Author's Note:**

> I have at least one other connected part of this planned, and I've written exactly one word of it.  
>  _!!struggling with these things does not mean you are weak, even if your brain tries to say so!!_
> 
> Autism is a spectrum and everyone responds to trauma differently. For this fic I used my stims, sensory issues, and trauma-related freakouts for reference. If my descriptions don't feel right/familiar/accurate to you, you are extremely valid! Everyone experiences these (extremely unpleasant) things differently and describing them is a whole other challenge. So if you're thinking "my panic attack wasn't like that, maybe I'm faking it, maybe I'm..." etc spiral (been there), NO. STOP. YOU'RE NOT FAKING IT. YOUR MENTAL HEALTH STRUGGLES ARE VALID. 
> 
> If, on the other hand, this resonated with you (I'm really writing so many words here about such a short fic) and you're not receiving any mental health care, I highly highly highly recommend exploring options if feasible. Can personally say that ignoring the trauma does not make it go away or easier to deal with and having a professional who understands how the human brain works and responds to trauma is definitely a benefit for your healing. 
> 
> Either way, thanks for reading this and if you have thoughts please share them! This is the second installation in this series.


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